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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24257185">Breathing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/afraidtobelieve/pseuds/afraidtobelieve'>afraidtobelieve</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The West Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s02e10 Noel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:13:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,525</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24257185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/afraidtobelieve/pseuds/afraidtobelieve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One moment he’s in the Oval Office, barely stopping himself from wearing a hole in the carpet from pacing in front of the president. The next moment, he’s... well, he doesn’t actually remember what happened, exactly.</p><p>Post-episode for "Noël."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter 1</p><p> </p><p>He’d been feeling restless and stressed for hours and he didn’t know how to stop it. Josh couldn’t hear his own <em>thoughts </em>let alone his voice over the grating din of the bagpipes. </p><p> </p><p><em>Christ, Toby, bagpipes?</em> He would’ve said if he could find the words. <em>You thought a loud Irish funeral was the right mood here?</em> </p><p> </p><p>He can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears. Except it’s not really the wooshing sound he’s used to whenever he’s had a panic attack in the past. No, this sound is different. Louder. It’s moving in and out at different decibels, on a loop. It’s loud, and somehow familiar. He thinks he’s heard it before, but he can’t put his finger on it. It almost sounds like- </p><p> </p><p>And then it’s time for Senior Staff. He never does figure it out before everything goes to hell. </p><p> </p><p>One moment he’s in the Oval, barely stopping himself from wearing a hole in the carpet from pacing in front of the president. The next moment, he’s... well, he doesn’t actually remember what happened, exactly.</p><p> </p><p>Something about meeting with whatshisname during the congressional Christmas party. And... Christmas cards? Could that be right? Why was he yelling about Christmas cards while they discussed Didion (oh right, that’s his name) and IMF loans? Why was he yelling at all? Why was the president looking at him like that?</p><p> </p><p>He’s trying to get his point across but it’s not working and he’s yelling and he feels like he’s <em>drowning</em>-</p><p> </p><p>“Please! Listen to me!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Please hear me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t remember walking from the Oval to Leo’s office, but he must have. He can’t focus, his ears are ringing, everything is still so <em>loud</em>...</p><p> </p><p>He feels anxious and panicky and he’s so, so exhausted.</p><p> </p><p>The ringing in his ears has just barely begun to dull by the time he turns to see Leo shut his office door.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Ringing. Could it be bells that he’s hearing? No, that’s still not right... But maybe-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Have you ever heard of ATVA?” The look in Leo’s eyes is unbearable.</p><p> </p><p>“Leo....” </p><p> </p><p>“Have you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think I should go back in there.“ </p><p> </p><p>Fix this. He can fix this, he just needs to go back in there, and fix this- </p><p> </p><p>“It’s the American Trauma Victims Association.”</p><p> </p><p>“Leo-“</p><p> </p><p>“We call them in to treat trauma victims. Specifically-“</p><p> </p><p>“I <em>know </em>what ATVA is.” And if he hears the word “victim” one more time he might just crawl out of his skin.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re gonna sit with a guy.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh, no. No no no no.</p><p> </p><p>“Leo...”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re gonna sit with a guy.” He repeats himself in a tone that is both stern and somehow tender, as only Leo can. Josh has never felt more alone in his entire life.</p><p> </p><p>Later, after he’s had a full, honest-to-goodness meltdown in front of Congress and smashed a window in his apartment, he sits through some of the most intense therapy of his life with a man who steadfastly refuses to buy even a second of his bullshit. His self-defense mechanisms are out in full force, jokes, sarcasm, biting remarks meant to imply that his job is too important to think about his fucking <em>feelings</em>, but this psychiatrist stonewalls him at every turn. In the end there is only Stanley and himself, and his pain. </p><p> </p><p>Working through it is like swimming up towards the surface of something deep and murky. His limbs are uncoordinated, heavy, and every moment feels like he’s <em>just </em>about to breach the surface. Every moment feels like the last one he’ll be able to survive without air. He’s sure of it. </p><p> </p><p>And then another moment passes. And another. </p><p> </p><p>Only after hours of wading through these moments does he feel like he might just breach the surface after all. Only then can he finally, <em>finally </em>breathe. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not easy at first and he can’t take a full breath. It’s more like heaving after a hard run. He’s still waiting for his lungs to fully expand. </p><p> </p><p>He feels lighter, afterwards. Not 100% better after only one session, not even 50% better if he’s being honest, but he wasn’t expecting a miracle. <em>God</em>, who is he to ask for a miracle, anyway?</p><p> </p><p>“Long as I’ve got a job, you’ve got a job.” </p><p> </p><p>The exhaustion that only comes with intense emotional release is settling deep into his bones at this point, and he can’t work up the energy to explain what this means to him. He may never have the words to properly express how grateful he is for Leo.</p><p> </p><p>The sheer magnitude of what this man has done for him is crushing his heart, and he cannot fathom what he’s done in this life to deserve this support. This love.  </p><p> </p><p>“Donna’s gonna take you to the emergency room.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Shit</em>. “She knows?” </p><p> </p><p>“She was the one who guessed.” And isn’t that just the icing on the cake. </p><p> </p><p>He trusts her, of course he does. Trusts her implicitly. It’s not the knowing that bothers him, not really. It’s the fact that he’s been an absolute terror for weeks now and he knows that she’s borne the brunt of it. She doesn’t even give him the kicked puppy look anymore. She just steels herself and does her best to take care of him while staying out of the line of fire. </p><p> </p><p>He tries not to think about the irony in that particular metaphor.</p><p> </p><p>He’s spent weeks treating her like absolute garbage, but she’s still here. Still saving him.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know how to apologize or even thank her as they step out onto Pennsylvania Ave, so he says the first thing that comes to mind.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t need a doctor.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you a doctor?”</p><p> </p><p>“...No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then be quiet.” If he’s being honest, he really doesn’t have the energy to argue about it anyway. </p><p> </p><p>He takes a moment to listen to the carolers before Donna pulls him away. Only then does the reality of this diagnosis really hit him, while Donna gently guides him towards the street with her arm linked through his. </p><p> </p><p>Music. <em>Music </em>is what did this to him.  Well, technically, being shot in the chest did this to him, but his brain’s not exactly playing long ball right now. </p><p> </p><p>He loves music. He loves Schubert and Bach and Tchaikovsky and the Doobie Brothers. It’s his strongest connection to his sister and the composer she never got to become.</p><p> </p><p><em>Jesus</em>, he thinks. <em>I can’t even have music anymore? </em></p><p> </p><p>He feels like he’s losing the last threads of his connection to Joanie. He feels like he’s losing himself.    </p><p> </p><p>There is a cavernous hole in his chest larger than any bullet, and he would weep at the emptiness of it all if he wasn’t so <em>fucking </em>exhausted.</p><p> </p><p>She guides him to the taxi she’s already called, and he holds the door open for her as she slides across to the opposite seat. </p><p> </p><p>“Georgetown University Hospital, please.”</p><p> </p><p>He wants to insist that he can handle GW, but he knows that she’s probably right to choose a hospital with a little less history for him. It doesn’t fix his hand, or anything at all, really. It <em>is </em>something, though. It’s not nothing.</p><p> </p><p>They don’t speak again until they’re seated in the waiting room in the ER. She’s filling out the medical paperwork while he stares ahead at the opposite wall. </p><p> </p><p><em>Josh</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Josh?”</p><p> </p><p><em>Oh</em>, he thinks. <em>That was real.</em></p><p> </p><p>He turns to her, dazed.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“I asked if you had your insurance card on you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay.”</p><p> </p><p>He pulls out his wallet and starts to dig through it, but his makeshift bandage is making it difficult to grip the wallet and dig through it at the same time. She can tell he’s getting frustrated, so she places her hand over his and takes it from him. She finds his insurance card and hands the wallet back to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” he whispers, hanging his head. He’s almost too tired to feel humiliated. Almost.</p><p> </p><p>She squeezes his forearm and keeps working on the paperwork while he stares at his shoes.</p><p> </p><p>She follows him back to a room when his name is called and holds his good hand while the nurse gently prods the other.</p><p> </p><p>A doctor comes in a few minutes later and starts his own exploration without preamble. </p><p> </p><p>“Fight with the good holiday glassware, Mr. Lyman?”</p><p> </p><p>“Josh,” he corrects, “and you shoulda seen what I did to the gravy boat on Thanksgiving.” He tries to smirk, but it turns to a grimace when the doctor finds a small shard still lodged in the wound.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, I’m gonna hit you with some lidocaine and then we’ll get this cleaned and stitched up, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>When Josh doesn’t respond, Donna thanks the doctor for him. </p><p> </p><p>“No problem, Mrs. Lyman.” </p><p> </p><p>They both stopped correcting medical personnel for that assumption months ago, so she just smiles and nods.</p><p> </p><p>Later, while they wait at the hospital pharmacy for his prescribed pain meds, he stares at his newly-bandaged hand and sighs. </p><p> </p><p>“How did you know?”</p><p> </p><p>She looks up from the magazine she’d been flipping through.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“How did you know something was wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>She sets the magazine back on the side table.</p><p> </p><p>“You just... seemed different, lately. You can be loud and obnoxious, but lately... lately you’ve just been quiet and... and mean. You’re never mean. Not to us,” she finishes quietly. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Not to me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He grabs her hand again but doesn’t look up from his shoes. He hasn’t felt anything except numbness or anger for weeks, but he can feel the pinpricks of guilty tears behind his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry in public, however empty this waiting room might be.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m... really sorry, Donna.” </p><p> </p><p>“Josh, it’s okay.” Her voice is thick with emotion. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s <em>not</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>She’s staring at his bandaged hand, trying to find the words to make him feel better. She doesn’t blame him. Really, she doesn’t. But his pain is still all-encompassing. She doesn’t know what to say. </p><p> </p><p>He feels that he owes her some sort of explanation for all of this. He doesn’t have one, not really. He has no words to express his gratitude or his shame. He has no idea how to mend what’s broken, so he figures that the truth will have to be enough for now.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t break a glass.” He speaks quietly, as if for volume of his voice will somehow make it less true.</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“I punched a window in my apartment.”</p><p> </p><p>She releases his hand and, for a moment, he thinks that she’s recoiled from him. He feels adrift, anchorless, and the chaos inside of him swirls with heartache at the loss. He is already so, so ashamed. He couldn’t possibly survive if she leaves him alone with this. He’s about to apologize when he feels her arm around him, her hand coming up to hold his head against her shoulder. She threads her fingers through his hair as he reaches for her free hand and grips it as hard as he dares. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re gonna get through this, Josh. Just like everything else. We’ll get through this.”</p><p> </p><p>“I really hope you’re right about that.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m always right.” She squeezes his hand to emphasize her point.</p><p> </p><p>A faint smile passes his lips. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course. I forgot.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t let it happen again.” </p><p> </p><p>They both know she’s not talking about the forgetting.</p><p> </p><p>It’s midnight by the time they make it back to his apartment. His super has boarded up the smashed window and drawn the curtains to hide the damage, but he can’t escape what’s happened underneath. Donna never lets him catch her looking at it, but he knows she must have because her first question is when the new glass will be installed. </p><p> </p><p>“Two days, I think. Super said it cost a fortune to expedite it.” </p><p> </p><p>She nods and turns up the thermostat. </p><p> </p><p>She’s taking off her coat before he realizes that she doesn’t plan to leave.</p><p> </p><p>“Donna, you don’t have to stay.”</p><p> </p><p>She kicks off her shoes and heads for his tea kettle as she responds.</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really, don’t you have a flight in the morning? I’m sure you need to pack, or...”</p><p> </p><p>“My flight was cancelled, it’s fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really.”</p><p> </p><p>She’s pulling tea out of his cabinet, messing with the dial on the stove, her back to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no snow on the ground.”</p><p> </p><p>“There is in Madison.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really? Because, we can turn on the national weather service right now, and-“</p><p> </p><p>“Josh. I’m staying here, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>He looks down to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>She hasn’t turned around.</p><p> </p><p>“Donna?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks. For, you know... everything.”</p><p> </p><p>He sees the slump in her shoulders before she faces him, hears her sigh of exhaustion.</p><p> </p><p>She crosses the room and engulfs him in a hug before he’s even processed that she’s turned around.</p><p> </p><p>He wraps his arms around her waist and holds on while he waits for the wave of emotion to pass. </p><p> </p><p>“You never, <em>ever </em>have to thank me for this.”</p><p> </p><p>And that’s when the lump in his throat betrays him. His lungs finally, <em>finally </em>expand, and he cries for the first time in months.</p><p> </p><p>He tucks his head into her shoulder like a child and lets the tears come, lets her hold him. He hasn’t felt this safe in months.</p><p> </p><p>The whistling of the kettle startles them both, but he seems visibly agitated by the noise, so Donna races to turn off the stove. </p><p> </p><p>She moves back to him and grabs his hand, leading him to his bedroom. He sits on the bed and stares through red-rimmed eyes as she rummages through his dresser for sweats and a t-shirt. She shoves the clothes into his hands and places a hand on his cheek to get his attention. When he looks up, his eyes are glassy. Lost.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m gonna fix you some tea. You change and come back out when you’re ready, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>And then she’s gone.</p><p> </p><p>He changes quickly, surprised by how much he hates to be alone after weeks of wanting nothing but that.</p><p> </p><p>He shuffles back out to his living room to find her setting two steaming mugs on his coffee table. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you eat dinner?” Her question draws his attention to the present.</p><p> </p><p>“Um...” In all honesty his brain is having trouble remembering anything before his session with Stanley. There may have been a bagel for breakfast, but he can’t really recall.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’m ordering pizza. Your blood is probably 80% coffee at the moment.”</p><p> </p><p>“No weird vegetables?”</p><p> </p><p>“You think all vegetables are weird. We’re ordering extra cheese and pepperoni, but you’re going to owe me for next time, got it?”</p><p> </p><p>He knows it’s pity, but he still appreciates the gesture. She’ll be back to making him eat vegetables tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>He goes back into his room for a spare set of sweats and a shirt for her to sleep in. He doesn’t want to be alone, and he knows she’ll insist despite his token protest anyway. He decides that he’s too tired to even bother with pretenses tonight. </p><p> </p><p>She’s hanging up with the pizza place when he comes back out with the clothes and a pair of the thick socks that she always steals anyway. She smiles in appreciation and makes her way to the bathroom. </p><p> </p><p>They’re both curled up on the couch a few minutes later when he speaks into his mug of tea.</p><p> </p><p>“Stanley says I have PTSD.”</p><p> </p><p>She sets her own mug down and turns toward him, legs tucked underneath her. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“I said I didn’t think that’s something they let you have when you work for the president.” </p><p> </p><p>She tilts her head, a pained look on her face.</p><p> </p><p>“Josh, this happened <em>because </em>you work for the president. They would never abandon you because of that. Leo wouldn’t allow it. The <em>president </em>wouldn’t-“ </p><p> </p><p>“Leo told me that.”</p><p> </p><p>“He loves you, Josh. He would never leave you at a time like this. You’ll get better, and then one day this will just be a bad memory.”</p><p> </p><p>“What if I don’t...”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Get better,” he whispers.</p><p> </p><p><em>He’s scared,</em> she thinks. <em>Oh god, he’s so scared.</em></p><p> </p><p>She moves to his end of the couch and takes Josh’s mug from him. She sets it on the coffee table before wrapping him in her arms again. She rests her chin on the top of his head and he presses his ear to her chest. The sound of her heartbeat is soothing as she speaks.</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>will </em>get better, Josh. You’ll get better because you’ve got health and strength and because you’re not fighting this alone. You’ve got a lot of people who love you and we won’t let this thing win. You’ll get better because I say so. Okay?” </p><p> </p><p>He sniffles and sits up, nodding silently. He’s so tired. </p><p> </p><p>The pizza arrives and Josh realizes that he’s starving. He’s lost weight over the past few months, he knows. He just hasn’t felt hungry. They eat in silence.</p><p> </p><p>When they’re done, Donna puts the leftovers in the fridge while he makes up the couch with a blanket and pillow. He grabs some sheets from the hall closet and starts toward his bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m just gonna change the sheets and then you can have the bed.”</p><p> </p><p>“Josh, no, the couch is fine. You need sleep. C’mon, I’ll get your pain meds and tuck you in.” </p><p> </p><p>“I swear I’ve had this dream before.” He doesn’t give her a full smile, but there’s a hint of something familiar in his eyes. Something she’s missed.</p><p> </p><p>She rolls her eyes and shoves him towards his bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>When he’s under the covers she comes in with his pain meds and a glass of water. He takes the pills and sets the glass of water on the nightstand, staring up at her like a child while she sits on the edge of his bed. His eyes are huge and glassy with exhaustion. </p><p> </p><p><em>He’s so fragile</em>, she thinks. </p><p> </p><p>Donna brushes his hair back from his forehead and his eyes drift shut. She discovered early on in the hospital that the motion soothed him, and she’ll be damned if she’s going to deny him any small amount of comfort right now.</p><p> </p><p>She’s still running her fingers through his hair, assuming he’s falling asleep, when his voice breaks the silence. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t go.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not leaving, Josh. I’ll be right out on the couch.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. I mean... stay. Please.” He blinks his eyes then, his expression open and vulnerable, and how could she ever deny him? </p><p> </p><p>“Okay. Just until you fall asleep.”</p><p> </p><p>He looks like he wants to say something more, but thinks better of it. She takes his hand again and watches him drift to sleep. </p><p> </p><p>When she’s sure that he’s unconscious, she continues stroking his hair as she whispers into the dark.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re gonna get better, Josh. You’re gonna get better because so help me god if you leave me now I will never forgive you.” </p><p> </p><p>Several minutes later, she kisses his forehead softly before making her way back out into the living room, her own chest wound painfully exposed.</p><p> </p><p>Loving Josh Lyman is not for the faint of heart.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>One moment he’s in the Oval Office, barely stopping himself from wearing a hole in the carpet from pacing in front of the president. The next moment, he’s... well, he doesn’t actually remember what happened, exactly.</p>
<p>Post-episode for "Noël."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When he wakes up the next morning, the cold December light streaming through his windows is harsh, and his head feels fuzzy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Damn pain meds.</em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then yesterday’s events come flooding back to him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Oh god. Damage control. Does he need damage control? No, Stanley says he needs to get out of damage control. But god, Donna... </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And that’s when two things occur to him. The first is that his hand hurts like hell. The lidocaine has completely worn off and he needs more pain meds. The second thing is that he can smell coffee.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He drags himself out to the kitchen to find Donna standing at the counter whisking something in a large bowl he vaguely recognizes as his own. She’s covered in... <em>is that flour?</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Morning, sunshine! Do you need pain meds?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Coffee.” He’s squinting like he does when he’s severely hungover and his hair is more of a disaster than usual. Her heart twists with affection at the sight. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“First, you take your meds and drink a glass of orange juice. Then you can have coffee.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Fascist dictators have nothing on you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She grabs him by the shoulders and leads him to the kitchen table, sitting him down in front of today’s Post. She slides two capsules, a glass of orange juice, and a plate of toast in front of him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Take a few bites of toast so the pills don’t upset your sensitive sys-“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, Florence, I got it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He does as he’s told and is rewarded with a steaming cup of coffee that is both strong and heavy on cream and sugar. He actually moans at the first sip.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ve changed my mind. You are a goddess among mere mortals.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking,” she says, resuming her previous whisking.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wait. Wait is that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Pancakes. Well, pancake batter. But there will be pancakes in the near future.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What do you mean, why?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why will there be pancakes?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Because it’s Christmas and I said so.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ahkay.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s almost done with his coffee when it hits him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s Christmas!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It is.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s Christmas?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, Virginia, there <em>is </em>a Santa Claus.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s Christmas and you’re making me pancakes.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Some of them are for me, you know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The wave of guilt is palpable as he turns in his seat to face her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Donna... I can’t take Christmas away from you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re not.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Donna, you’re wasting your Christmas on... on <em>this</em>-“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She sets the bowl on the counter and cups his cheek so he has no choice but to make eye contact.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Joshua, listen to me. You are not taking Christmas away from me and you are not- do you hear me?- you are <em>not </em>a waste. I am here because I want to be, because you’re my friend and I care. We are going to stuff ourselves with pancakes until we can’t move, and then we are going to watch Christmas movies until you beg me to let you retain some semblance of your Judaism, at which point we will order Chinese food and watch more movies. Got it?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p> “We’re doing Jewish Christmas?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She smiles. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Maybe next year we can graduate to Protestant Christmas.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He actually laughs at that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Only if there’s eggnog.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Go shower. The pancakes will be ready by the time you’re done.“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He finishes his coffee and shuffles back to the bathroom as he’s told. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His shower is wet and the toiletries she left in his bathroom after last summer are lined up along the shower’s ledge. His chest aches at the familiarity of it all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Twenty minutes later he’s showered and shaved, and he’s feeling better than he has in weeks. Intense trauma therapy and 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep will do that to a person, apparently. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He puts on a pair of flannel pajama pants and an old t-shirt before wandering back towards the delicious smell coming from his kitchen. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Uh... where did I have pancake batter?” he asks by way of greeting. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, I walked to the supermarket down the street this morning. I picked up some other stuff and yes, the makings for eggnog, just in case.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You walked five blocks in this neighborhood at what hour?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It was broad daylight and you live in Georgetown, Josh. Relax.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ll show you relaxed,” he grumbles into his pancakes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’ve been a bag of neuroses for 38 years, Josh. I don’t see why that should change now.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He drowns his pancakes in syrup and she rolls her eyes, but doesn’t admonish him. She’ll make sure he eats a salad with dinner. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He doesn’t mention the previous night and neither does she. Maybe that will be a conversation for later. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’re halfway through <em>It’s A Wonderful Life</em> when CJ calls a few hours later.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So I was thinking,” she starts as soon as he answers the phone. He cuts her off.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why, Merry Christmas, Josh. How wonderful it is to hear your voice on this gaudy, commercialized excuse for a day off of work.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Across from him on the couch, Donna mouths “be nice” with a frown, but she secretly rejoices in the small victory of his better mood.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, okay, Merry Christmas, Joshua. You can cool it with the gentile remarks because Toby’s already got it covered. Are you doing anything today?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nah, just, you know, watching movies and shouting at the sky. The usual. Why?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Josh?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you alone?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why, Claudia Jean, are you offering me the benefit of your company to keep me warm on a cold December night?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He can <em>hear </em>her eye roll over the phone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, you cretin. I’m asking if you have someone with you today. To, you know, spend the holiday with.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s not my holiday but yes, Donna’s here to make sure I don’t jump into the Potomac.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Okay, good. Put her on.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You called me and you don’t even wanna talk to me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nope, I’ve gotten just as much of you as I can handle today.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I have that effect on women.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Even Donna rolls her eyes at that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Now</em>, Joshua.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“‘Kay.” And then he tries to eavesdrop while Donna speaks to CJ.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, yeah, he got home just fine.” Pause. “He’s gonna be okay, CJ. Really. You heard him. He’s already back to hitting on you.” Pause. “Yeah well, he’s <em>always </em>been insufferable.” She laughs at something CJ says and he stares on indignantly. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Alright, thanks for checking up on him.” Pause. “I will. You wanna talk to him before you hang up?” Pause. “Okay. Here’s Josh again. Merry Christmas. Tell Toby I said hi,” she says as she hands the phone back to him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He smiles into the phone as he speaks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You were checking up on me?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Shut up.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You were! Claudia Jean, I didn’t know you cared.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Joshua, of course I care.” She says it so earnestly it wipes the smile right off of his face. He‘d forgotten about reality for a moment and it had felt exquisite. Like pieces of him weren’t missing or scarred.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says quietly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We love you, Josh. Let Donna take care of you today and it’ll get better. Okay?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Alright.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wait, what were you thinking about when you called?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You started the phone call with ‘so I was thinking.’ What were you thinking about?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh! You’re coming to my place for New Year’s.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes. So is Donna. So is everyone. Non-negotiable so you have a safe place to get plastered off of two wine coolers.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You wound me, CJ.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Only for sport. See you later, mi amor.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“CJ?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thank you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t even mention it, Joshua. Merry Christmas.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Merry Christmas.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And with that, he settles back into the couch to finish another movie. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>At some point there is Chinese food. Later, there is egg nog as they give up on Christmas movies and make their way through the terrible romantic comedies that she insists on keeping at his place. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is laughter and then, finally, something that might feel like peace.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know this concept has been done to death, but I still figured I'd try my hand at it anyway. This is what I'd like to believe happened after our screens faded to black.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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